


Personal Jesus

by mcpriceley



Category: Black Mirror: Bandersnatch (2018)
Genre: sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 13:27:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17366705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcpriceley/pseuds/mcpriceley
Summary: He turns on his side. Open, close, open, close-- he gave his white knuckles a break, instead choosing to sacrifice the palms of his hands as they’re imprinted with his unwittingly tough nails.He wonders if he’s the only one thinking, and feeling, and being. He wonders if everyone is a complete fucking robot, incapable of complex thought and therefore incapable of feeling the way he does. Or he wonders if they’re more like Colin-- so used to the emotions and the intellectual capacity that nothing phases them anymore. Either way, he feels isolated. His bed has never felt smaller. It’s never been harder to breathe.





	Personal Jesus

Colin is mean. And Colin doesn’t mean to be, so Stefan attributes it to mind tricks. Always the goddamn mind tricks, never with a valid source. Colin does know that much about him-- more than Stefan does. Sometimes Stefan thinks that Colin knows more about his own mind than he does, and that thought doesn’t settle well in the bottom of his stomach.

 

Because Colin is unattainable. He can’t exist within him, he can’t channel his soul and calm down. Why does the fog clear up when he’s involved in his problems? What angers Stefan the most, only sometimes, is the fact that Colin has what Stefan needs. He’s a goddamn lap dog. He trails, he obeys, and worst of all-- a very, very recent and not necessarily welcomed revelation-- he worships.

 

God, all Colin has to do is walk down the street, evidently, and Stefan is his, no questions asked. Of course, at the time, there was no room for contemplation over that decision. But now, in his bedroom, the lights dark while he attempts, for once, to intentionally sleep in a real bed with real blankets and real warm tea, all he can do is think. Stefan’s jaw aches just thinking about the way he felt then.

 

He could sit there and tell the world that it wasn’t him. That some higher power was moving through him.

 

But Stefan had never felt more comfortable in his own skin in his life.

 

He turns on his side. Open, close, open, close-- he gave his white knuckles a break, instead choosing to sacrifice the palms of his hands as they’re imprinted with his unwittingly tough nails.

 

He wonders if he’s the only one thinking, and feeling, and being. He wonders if everyone is a complete fucking robot, incapable of complex thought and therefore incapable of feeling the way he does. Or he wonders if they’re more like Colin-- so used to the emotions and the intellectual capacity that nothing phases them anymore. Either way, he feels isolated. His bed has never felt smaller. It’s never been harder to breathe.

 

Stefan can’t imagine what Colin must be like when there’s no one around. Is it much like an atom that will only behave a certain way when people are staring long enough? He just can’t imagine Colin climbing into bed at night, cool and collected, while a storm rages in his mind. How can he handle that? How can he look at Stefan like the child, the one who doesn’t quite get it yet? Stefan gets it, he gets it so much that he doesn’t exist anymore without it.

 

He swallows. There’s pain, a lot of pain, but he doesn’t know where it comes from. He can’t do this.

 

The clock reads 3:17 AM.

 

He can’t do anything.

 

Stefan feels something rising in his chest-- something, something, something, something something--

 

He shoves his sheets off of his clammy body. For fuck sake. He slams the pillow into the mattress. He’s not quite sure if it’s supposed to represent Colin or himself.

 

...And then the thought doesn’t matter, because Stefan isn’t in control. He’s sitting up, putting his shoes and coat on, sneaking down the hall to steal his father’s car keys, and he isn’t doing it. It is not him. Stefan is somewhere in there, but he is not responsible.

 

What Stefan won’t dare to admit is the fact that, inside of all of this, in the eye of the hurricane, Stefan is happy.

 

It takes thirty minutes.

 

“...Good morning.”

 

Colin is wearing a sweater, slightly too big for his frame, but a much more fitting pair of sweatpants. His hair looks more crazed than Stefan feels. Unfortunately, it’s validating. He could swear his glasses are a bit crooked. Tossed on in a rush.

 

Stefan can’t even crack a smile in apology. Colin’s lips were pressed together in a manner that proves his apathy. But sometimes Stefan knows, too.

 

When he notices Stefan isn’t speaking, only trembling in his face and hands, the smallest and most obscure look of concern takes over. He holds the door open a little wider, but doesn’t take much more than a step to the side. It’s as if he wants Stefan to have to touch him as he walks past to come in.

 

And Stefan does.

 

Stefan’s been in his apartment many a time, and although each experience is somehow worse than the last, he does one hell of a job of not repressing a single second of it. It gets bigger every time he’s in there. And now he knows, because he’s licking his lips and looking around as if a baby could cry out at any moment. Colin eases the door shut and knowingly points at a room far, far away from any unintentional human contact.

 

He puts on some tea, and Stefan doesn’t move. Colin doesn’t ask him to. Colin walks into the living room. Stefan only stares.

 

When Colin hears no footsteps, he turns his head to the side, but presumes he doesn’t have to look at Stefan. That isn’t the place to be. He picks back up, walking and walking until he reaches a private room of sorts. As much as Stefan believes he can hold his ground, he’s still on strings by the hands of a puppeteer of whom he does not understand. The bedroom is clean, but filled-- shelves of records, books, notes, films, equipment. His bed has an imprint of pressure on his, blankets thrown askew, and alongside everything else, Stefan feels bad.

 

“Close the door, yeah?”

 

Stefan looks at the knob and nothing else as he does. Colin doesn’t waste time in getting to the bottom of this, if only for his missed sleep. Stefan expects a ‘you’re not supposed to be here’ or something along those lines, but no matter how much room he gives it to appear, it doesn’t. Huh.

 

Stefan jumps slightly when Colin claps his hands but once, spreading his legs a little-- an act of dominance?-- as he sits on the edge of his own bed. “You need me?”

 

It was a question, but Stefan burns as it registers as a statement.

 

He can’t swallow fast enough. “Yes.”

 

There’s something about it. The pause after, the slight trembling that refuses to steady, the subtext, god, the _implications--_ Colin cracks a smile. It’s unlike anything Stefan’s ever seen before.

 

His hands move behind him on the mattress, holding himself up, he leans back and watches. Studies. Stefan wishes he wasn’t moving.

 

“Good,” Colin’s strong, until something driven by what one would dare to call emotion seeps out. A quieter, “...then.”

 

Stefan’s tired of this. He wants to run.

 

But Colin is sitting there, staring at him, and he know that he can’t. When he looks at him, finally, _finally,_ Colin’s better facade of confidence fails him. Colin almost wants to respond, but for once, Stefan beats him to it. And it feels like the onslaught of a volcanic eruption in the time it takes for him to respond. He’s anticipating so much-- murder, revolution, love, god, _what?_

 

“C… Can’t sleep,” another swallow. Colin’s expression pointedly remains stoic. Stefan blinks at him a few times, quickly, and then blinks away. “Sorry.”

 

“What for?” Colin’s voice is as bleak as ever. Stefan hates it. Stefan wishes he’d stayed home, wishes his brain had never bothered, wishes _he_ had never bothered--

 

Maybe Colin isn’t mean. Maybe it’s Stefan, who’s weak, and wants so much more than he could possibly get, from himself, and from everyone around him. Maybe Colin didn’t want to give it to him, what he wanted. Or maybe he didn’t have it at all.

 

When Stefan shrugs, Colin reaches to lift a blanket away from the center of the bed. An invitation. “Might as well pick up where you left off,” There’s no way that’s the end of that. Colin understands, but not everything. Stefan doesn’t budge, so he pats the spot. “Come on, then. You’re not going to stand there at the door the whole night.”

 

His feet move, but Stefan’s soul doesn’t.

 

When he shakily sits on the edge of the bed, Colin is looking him up and down, waiting for him to take off his shoes, presumably, and his jacket, and lay down comfortably in _his bed._ Why are his ears burning?

 

He barely registers doing as is expected of him.

 

Colin allows his feet to rest in his lap. He even touches them, casually. Passively. To Stefan, horrifically.

 

They’re quiet. He’s fiddling with his hands over his chest, staring up at the ceiling as if he’s trying to be anywhere mentally except _there._

 

“I felt too much,” Colin’s eyebrows perk up. A welcomed surprise. That in of itself shouldn’t necessarily encourage him to go on, but alas. “Like myself,” he knows there’s a question coming, “I. I got to thinking, and… why… why do I sit there, awake at night, feeling, and thinking, and no one else does?”

 

The syntax is piss poor, but Colin seems to get it. Goddamnit. He always does. He cocks his head, slightly. Interested. Stefan swallows. And again, he speaks. “I mean,” teeth grinding, “it’s as if there’s no capabilities there. No complex thought, no independence, _true_ independence,” Colin almost cuts in about all the proof and shit he had about free will. Yes, Stefan knows. Only the illusion of free will exists.

 

So then what does that make him and Colin?

 

“Everyone goes to sleep at night, unphased. You-- you even did, apparently, a-and I’m _sorry--”_

 

“Sorry,” Colin sniggers. Mocking. Stefan hopes it’s for good reason. It shuts Stefan up, and so Colin tilts his head back and forth as he calculates an answer.

 

He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s anticipating brilliance, or something close to love put behind a billion layers of wrapping paper, but he finds Colin’s answer underwhelming.

 

“Me, too.”

 

It’s quiet. Stefan wants to die. It’s so fucking quiet, and it doesn’t stop, deafening, Stefan can’t hear the evident rustling from the edge of the bed.

 

His feet are placed on the mattress, and then the bed is dipping next to him. Colin is laying flat on his back, though their shoulders are touching, and he mimics Stefan’s exact position, save for crossing his ankles. It’s a solidarity that feels threatening.

 

When Colin opens his mouth, the saliva makes it click. “You’re not like the others.”

 

Now, Stefan could laugh. “Yeah, sure, sure,” He didn’t have to say the rest of that sentence, because his delivery alone implied a sense of, _what, I’m a fucking super human? You’re full of shit. We’re all on this Earth together._

 

Colin turns his head to look at him, and he’d never show it, but he’s viscerally relieved when Stefan turns as well. “...I mean that, Stefan. Neither am I. You know how it goes. No use dwelling on it.”

 

He swallows again, because he _hates_ that. There is a use dwelling on it, because he doesn’t _make any sense._

 

Or maybe what Stefan hates the most is that, here, in Colin Ritman’s bed, the moon still out, his heart pounding so loud he’s surprised Colin isn’t complaining-- just the two of them, and a haze of communicated yet unspoken emotions, Stefan feels _correct._

 

And Stefan wants to argue. He wants to fight him, and assure him that, no, there’s something wrong in the equation, something about them, something about the world. But when Colin is looking into his eyes and telling him that he’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay--

 

Colin never has to ask to reassure whether he’s okay, or reconfirm what he thinks or says, because he always seems to be in control of it all.  Stefan wishes he would start minding.

 

So Colin reaches his hand over, runs his hand up Stefan’s arm, and both of their eyes choose to follow the action. It stops at the space just before his shoulder, and his eyes aren’t as sure as they once were when they meet his once more. Colin tilts his chin down just a bit, as if he’s trying to convince himself that this is something it isn’t. His voice isn’t shaky, but Stefan knows him. He thinks does. This isn’t his normal intonation.

 

“...Do you still need my help?”

 

Stefan is sure he doesn’t exist. He’s never been more sure of anything before in his fucking life, only now it’s not for the right reasons. He nods.

 

Colin wraps his fingers around his arm, maybe a little too rough, maybe a little too soft. Nothing registers. He pulls his arm a little closer, urging the rest of his body to follow. While he awkwardly adjusts and readjusts and scoots closer, Colin turns on his side, so Stefan’s arm is pressed against his chest. Colin is looking down at him, and his face is just sort of hanging over Stefan’s as he presses the back of his head into the mattress. Colin studies his face, his eyes doing just enough to push the both of them off the cliff. Stefan looks afraid. Not like he’s in danger, but afraid of the fact that Colin might very well know every move. Colin minutely shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

 

Stefan allows his head to release pressure, naturally laying, although the tension doesn’t dissipate one bit. If anything, now it’s worse. The space between them is lesser now, but Colin hasn’t moved. He doesn’t think he did.

 

“Neither do I,” Stefan mumbles, though he’s trying his best to make it as articulate as possible. Colin must have memorized every last crease of his skin by now. With one elbow holding him up, and the other resting on the arm furthest from him, he feels like he’s waiting for the end of the world.

 

And it’s coming. Colin leans in. His eyes never leave Stefan’s for a second, and their noses tingle before they touch, and his eyes are still half open as he brushes his lips upon his. The image of a kiss, but the feeling of power-- barely touching, and yet they feel like they’re the same person. His hand tightens on Stefan’s arm where his lips are afraid to.

 

Stefan looks about ready to vomit when Colin backs up an inch or two once more. And he loves it.

 

“Do you think you can sleep now?”

 

They both know the answer is ‘no’, but Colin wants the illusion of helping him. He wants to lay there with him, knowing that no matter which way that night turns out, he has a hand in it.

 

Stefan decides he isn’t mean. He just wants, and wants, and it’s painful. And he’d crawl and scream and cry if it meant Colin would find ways to give him what he needs.

 

“...Sure. I-- I think so.”

 

Colin nods downward once more, and then he lowers himself. He straightens out his arm, and if his head winds up on the tip of Stefan’s shoulder, then. That’s the way it is, he supposes.

 

The only thing that truly cuts through is that this is all slightly less of a metaphor than what they’ve been to one another thus far. The tea is forgotten, Colin is sleepy, warm, and asking for him in some spiritual way, and if that translates to the physical, then that’s just the way it is, too.


End file.
